


The Artist

by Sherlions



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Art, Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Mild Sexual Content, Past Drug Use, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 15:28:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlions/pseuds/Sherlions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a list of punishments and his friendship with John is slowly unraveling. But when a strange man on the street tips his (atrocious) hat to him, things might be looking up. <br/>NOTE: Due to school business, there may be some time between updates, but a lot is written and just needs to be typed up and edited.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Man in the Hat

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first official fanfic here on AO3, and it is most definitely a work in progress. I'm not sure how long it's going to be, so please bear with me here. Thank you for reading!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He winks- _winks_ \- at you, and you cock your head warily. He seems to suppress a laugh and then goes on his way. Conceited bastard. Why couldn’t he just lower his ego for one moment?
> 
> (This fanfiction has a bit of a soundtrack. Songs are linked within. When it's completed, the full soundtrack will be posted on 8Tracks.)

The first time you see him, he tips his hat to you. You respond with a scowl and proceed to think about him for the rest of the week.  
  
On a bitterly cold Wednesday, you trudge through the dregs of the previous night’s snowfall and contemplate who he might be. You’ve ruled out the possibility that he knows you- you remember people (unless you delete them, and he, you think grudgingly, isn’t the type of man you’d delete.) He intrigues you, with his gaze like green glass bottles, sharp as the shards they would leave when broken. And his smile- a crooked, dimpled smile, clever and cheeky. A smile unpleasant to people not in on the joke.  
  
You feel like you’re not in on the joke; then you remember you’re not allowed to “feel” anything and promoting this sense of discomfort to a full thought is pointless, so you forget there ever was a joke in the first place (or at least you try.)  
  
A few more days pass and you decide it’s absurd to dwell on a stranger whom you’d most likely never see again. But as it happens, you run into him again, and you don’t even realize it’s him at first.  
  
You’re smoking again, some mentholated cigarettes that taste of toothpaste and stale winter flavorings. You view them as a sort of punishment. You see a man crossing the street. He’s wearing a light jacket and the same hat, though you don’t connect the dots; (you berate yourself for this later.) You glare at him irritably; it’s below zero and he’s wearing a hoodie. This bothers you for some reason that you can’t put your finger on. He turns around and your eyes meet with his, and you realize who it is. He winks- _winks_ \- at you, and you cock your head warily. He seems to suppress a laugh and then goes on his way. Conceited bastard. Why couldn’t he just lower his ego for one moment?  
  
Then you realize you probably have more of an ego than he does. Most people think you do, certainly. You decide to stop comparing yourself to others.  
  
Later, back at Baker Street, you sit in minty smoke clouds, leaving cigarette burns on the wooden tabletop. The flat seems a lot emptier for the lack of its former resident. John moved out a long time ago and is now living with his new wife, Mary. You had tried to be happy for him but soon realized how lonely you were. _Don’t get attached, Sherlock. You fool._  
  
You let your mind wander through snowdrifts of discarded memories. Memories of John. Stupid inside jokes, cases solved triumphantly with one of you brushing death, you playing Beethoven as he dozes over a book in the armchair. Nobody has sat in it since he left.  
  
Your train of thought is interrupted by your phone buzzing. Speak of the devil, it’s John. He invites you to dinner the next day. You feel like sulking about the flat and sleeping more than you should, but you agree to go.  
  
The dinner begins awkwardly, with a hug from Mary that feels more like being trapped and a quick handshake from John. Looking around the flat, you notice they still haven’t taken their Christmas decorations down, though over a month had passed since New Year’s. You didn’t bother with a tree this year, despite Mrs. Hudson’s less-than-subtle attempts to get you in the "[Holiday Spirit.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vraoiVCDdaM)" (You despise the term.)  
  
John looks content and in love, but you notice his slightly pained look as you sit through the small talk- “We say Harry last week again, she’s doing great, got herself a new girlfriend, clean for months now-” You doubt that; you know how difficult it is to quit things: alcohol, drugs, people.  
  
You’ve found it hard to quit John. He understood you. Perhaps he still does. But he’s moved on; you died in his mind when you jumped off that damn building.  
  
It surprised you whenever people thought you were a couple. He was always just John to you. A friend, a brother even. But in some sense, you loved him. And in some sense, your heart is broken.  
  
You had smoked a lot earlier, the same disgusting menthols from the day before. John looked at you disapprovingly when you walked in- the scent of smoke had stuck to you- but said nothing.  
  
You’ve had more wine than you probably should have, and your mind begins to drift back to the man in the hat. And what a ridiculous hat it was: a newsboy cap in shades of tan and beige plaid. Repulsive. But on the man it had a certain touch- a touch of the absurd. Somehow, you thought it gave him an air of intelligence- or perhaps your mind was fabricating what you had not, in fact, observed.  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
You focus back on the dinner. John is looking at you pointedly.  
  
“Mmh?”  
  
“Mary asked about cases lately.”  
  
“Nothing for a month,” you say, the words bitter on your tongue. You’re nothing without the cases, an empty shell who smokes and sleeps himself into oblivion.  
  
You realize the only motivation you have left is from thinking about the man.  
  
“I’m sorry to hear that, Sherlock,” Mary says sympathetically. She’s a smart woman, and you feel a touch of pride that John had finally wised up and set higher standards for himself. Mary is a journalist, and an adept one, very focused on facts and honesty, unlike Riley, whom you have tried your best to block from your memory.  
  
“I need to get some air,” John says suddenly, giving you a look. “Sherlock?”  
  
Wordlessly, you stand up and follow him outside. The cold is bitter through your thin suit jacket. Another punishment on the list. (A punishment for what? You don’t even know.)  
  
“You’ve been distracted this whole time,” John says, looking at you sternly. “It hardly seems like you’re even there.”  
  
You don’t respond.  
  
“You haven’t, er, _taken_ anything again, have you?” Ah, that explains it.  
  
“I haven’t.” You aren’t lying. “Just the cigarettes, some minty abominations.”  
  
“I suppose that’s better, but not by much,” John says, sounding slightly relieved. Concern is still etched onto his face. “So what’s distracting you, then?”  
  
(Nothing, you should say. Nothing at all.)  
  
“There’s a man with a hat,” you blurt. You sound mad, you realize. “A plaid hat. And I keep seeing him.”  
  
“What?” John asks, looking slightly alarmed.  
  
“On the street. He tipped the damn hat to me. Then I saw him again and he winked at me.”  
  
“Oh,” John exhales. “I thought you meant ‘seeing’ as in, you know, _imagining._ ”  
  
You stiffen. Did John have such little faith in him? What if you _are_ imagining him? Are you that lonely? (You are.) You are- mostly- sound of mind, and the possibility of you hallucinating is highly unlikely, you decide. Hat-Man is real.  
  
“No, of course not.”  
  
You fall silent. John’s breath is white on the winter air. You can’t feel your fingertips.  
  
“It’s late, I should probably go,” you announce hesitantly, resisting an urge to pull out a cigarette.  
  
“Alright,” John says slowly. “If you get a case, give me a call, would you?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“See you then,” John confirms with finality.  
  
“See you.”  
  
You stand there with John for a moment in the cold. John turns to go.  
  
“I miss you, John,” you say, only half-meaning to be heard.  
  
John turns to look at you. His eyes are sad.  
  
“I miss you too, Sherlock. But I guess you sort of get used to it.”  
  
(You’re never used to anything.)


	2. The Introduction of Victor Trevor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So we meet again,” the man says. A Londoner his whole life, going by his accent. His voice is soft and slightly husky.   
> “Obviously.”  
> “‘Obviously.’ Well, what else could I have expected from the great Sherlock Holmes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Alchemist and Barrister is the name of an English pub in Princeton. I borrowed it seeing as I'm shit at naming restaurants without sounding silly.

At home, you take a bath. You submerge yourself in the lukewarm water (you won’t allow yourself hot. The list of punishments grows.) Idly, you consider submerging your head and inhaling the water.

What an unceremonious way to die, you think. You’d give Mrs. Hudson quite a shock.

This bothers you less than it should.

You discard the thought. You already had the chance to kill yourself and you blew it. You get out and dry off, then proceed to the kitchen where you take more sleeping pills than you should.

You wake up sprawled on the sofa the next morning, feeling groggy. Your back hurts and your half-healed rib twinges sharply. Coffee, smoke, go out and wander aimlessly around London. You feel like you’re grieving for something, but you don’t know what.

(Yourself.)

And then, you see him, in the window of a coffee shop. He’s sipping at his drink and looking off at the wall, either examining the posters or lost in thought. His face is softer than before, and you realize for the first time how striking his features are. There’s a certain weary quality to his gaze, different from the sharp, cocky glances he aimed at you. He looks almost hurt; fragile.

Not fully aware of what you’re doing, you go into the shop. He sees you and you freeze in the doorway. The man smiles warmly (you’re in on the joke) and beckons you to the table. You sit down, feeling numb.

“So we meet again,” the man says. A Londoner his whole life, going by his accent. His voice is soft and slightly husky.

“Obviously.”

“‘Obviously.’ Well, what else could I have expected from the great Sherlock Holmes?”

Your heart sinks a little. A fan. That’s all. You try not to give up hope.

“You still have that bloody hat of yours,” you say, smiling humourlessly.

“I like it.” (You do too.)

“I was hoping that you’d burned it.”

You fold your hands and look at him. He’s drinking some ridiculously sweet-smelling minty beverage- you have a wave of craving for a cigarette- and is wearing a woolen jumper.

(John wore jumpers. He doesn’t anymore.)

The man is a good couple of inches taller than you, and lankier, sort of like you in your university years. There are paint stains on the knee of his trousers and marking his wrist.

“Working on a masterpiece, are you?”

“Saving that for later.” That crooked grin again. You frown.

“I’m Victor. Trevor. Just so you know. You wouldn’t know me from anywhere.”

Victor Trevor… You play with the name in your mind. “Victor” has the subtle tang of orangers, “Trevor” like green olives. You decide you like the taste.

“You clearly already know who I am,” I comment.

“No, I know your name. There’s a difference.” There is, there’s always been to you. (He understands?)

“I’m Sherlock, I hate mint, and winter, and tan plaid.”

“I’m Victor, I love mint, and winter, and tan plaid.”

“Why?”

“I just do,” he says simply.

“How vague,” you say distastefully.

“Well, why do you _dislike_ them?”

“Because mint is a punishment, winter depresses me, and your hat-”

“Yes?”

“I just do.” Victor smiles patronizingly. _Gotcha._

“Get a coffee, you look like you need one,” he instructs. You obey.

The coffee is good, chocolaty and a bit too sweet. You find it comforting. A part of you had thought to get the same minty drink that Victor was drinking, but you decided to skip the punishments for once.

Victor eyes you as you sit back down at the table. You get an uncanny sense of being read. (Is this how you make people feel?)

“Winter depresses you, huh,” Victor murmurs, more to himself than to you. You nod stiffly.

“It’s hard to be creative in late winter for me,” he comments. It’s an attempt to sympathize with you but it falls short. He doesn’t seem like the sort to be depressed.

You look down at your cup. You hadn’t gotten a cardboard sleeve for it, and the heat burns your hands dully; an unconscious punishment.

The silence is cold and tense. You let your mind wander to his looks: a long yet slightly rounded face, thin lips, and those piercing green eyes… Blond hair verging on a pale ginger color, and slightly curly.

Unusual looking. (Do you find him attractive? You do. You push the thought away as soon as it surfaces.)

He catches you looking and smiles, chidingly but kindly.

“Deduce anything, Holmes?”

So you’re on a last name basis.

“The clothes of a painter, the hands of a pianist, and the demeanor of a politician.” You watch him instinctively tap on the table what you recognize as a Bach prelude.

“My mum says I could be prime minister. My cousin says I could be the queen.”

You act unamused. (You’re mildly amused. And rather taken with him, despite yourself.)

“I don’t follow politics,” you say dismissively. A twitch of your mouth gives you away. You clutch the hot cup tighter.

Victor finishes his coffee and rests his chin in the palm of his left hand. (He’s left handed. So is John. _Stop it, brain._ )

“So. If you’re sad, how can I help you?” He inquires.

His question startles you. “What makes you think you can?” You ask defensively.

“Because you remembered me. I have to be significant in some way, don’t I?”

“Doesn’t mean you can cheer me up.”

“Actually, I know the perfect way.” His smile is crafty. Once again, you find yourself not in on the joke. You look at him warily.

Victor scribbles something on a napkin, and, folding it, hands it to you. His fingers brush yours and you stiffen for a moment.

“Have a nice day,” He says cheerily, looking down. (Shyly?) He gets up, leaving you alone at the table.

You unfold the napkin. On it is written his mobile number and, beneath it, a short message:

_Dinner tomorrow at the Alchemist and Barrister. 7 P.M. Meet me there.  
-Victor_

You refold the paper and pocket it, the numb feeling from the beginning of your conversation returning. You gulp down the rest of your coffee, burning your tongue, then hurry out.

You’ve just been asked out.

_“How are we feeling about that?”_

(Good.)


	3. The Alchemist and Barrister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes out to dinner with Victor. Then, everything sort of falls apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was sad to write. Terribly sorry.

The Alchemist and Barrister is a cramped, warm place with oak-panelled walls and a comforting scent of cooking meat in the air. You get there first, to your dismay. You don’t want to seem overeager. You’re taken to a table for two. Time passes achingly slowly, and you trace lines down the veins in your arm with your finger.

You hear the door open of the soft chatter of other patrons, and you look up. Sure enough, it’s Victor. You realize you’re tapping on the table. _How did John do this before he was married?_ To you, it’s very stressful.

The noise is now overpowering and your tapping is erratic.

“Hello,” Victor greets you, sitting down on the other side of the table. He’s wearing a slightly too big brown leather jacket over a [v-neck tee shirt.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2nckIo3Ikko) You try not to stare at the line of his collarbone.

“I need a drink,” you mutter, before you can catch yourself.

“Get one, then,” Victor says, cocking his head and looking at you curiously. He looks a bit like a puppy. “Are you alright? You look ill.”

“Noise,” you explain under your breath, wincing slightly.

Victor looks confused. “It isn’t that loud.”

“To you.”

He reaches his hand out towards your tapping one. You pull away at first, but then reach out again and brush your fingertips against his.

“Your hands are warm.” You sound like an idiot.

“Yours are cold.”

The waiter is coming your way and you quickly take your hand from his. Victor orders some complex meal- surely he’s a regular. (You wonder how many people he has sat with at this very table; then you push the thought away. You seem to be doing that more and more often these days.)

You order an appetizer and a cheap glass of wine of the sort you hate. The waiter leaves and Victor raises an eyebrow.

“That stuff’s disgusting, you know,” he points out.

“That’s why I ordered it.” He says nothing.

The conversation ends there and the two of you sit in silence till the food comes. You pick at your dish halfheartedly.

“Eat,” Victor says. It’s more of an order. You disobey.

“It’s not important.”

“You need to eat in order to live,” Victor states bluntly.

“That’s not important either.

Victor, for once, looks upset. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“Not to me, it isn’t.”

“You hardly know me.”

“I want to know you,” he says earnestly. “Besides, who would I have to insult my hat if you weren’t there?”

“The entire population of this planet.”

“You of all people know that they don’t matter.” (You do.)

“But until recently you were one of the nameless people of the world to me, and now you matter. What else have I been missing?”

Victor looks away, smiling slightly. “Maybe I’m just more interesting than them.”

“Perhaps.”

You eat in silence. The food is rather good despite the horrid wine, which you finish anyway.

“So how’s crime-solving going?” Victor asks pleasantly. He seems genuinely interested.

“Agonizingly slowly. A month since my last case. I think the idiots at the Yard are trying to ‘help’ me.”

“How so?”

“Letting my cracked rib heal. They’re torturing me.”

Victor looks slightly shocked and winces sympathetically. “Ouch. How did you manage to do that?”

“Fell whilst climbing a fence.”

“Self-sacrifice in the name of justice, huh.”

“More in the name of distracting myself.”

“And your friend John?” You freeze.

“Married. See him occasionally.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Losing him.”

“I haven’t lost him-” you start, but you know he’s right. You call a waiter over and order more sour wine.

“What have you been painting?” You ask him, changing the subject before he can probe further into your personal life.

“A portrait of my mother for her birthday. I’m trying to improve at faces,” he explains.  
  
“Art school?”

“Self-taught.”

“Ah.”

Silence.

“Can I see some time?”

“Of course. Are you free Friday?”

“Unless a case comes up, yes.” He’s asking you out again. Or maybe you asked yourself out. Either way, you’re glad.

Victor pays the cheque. You part ways outside the restaurant. He leaves you with a warm smile and a wink.

Maybe it’s the wine, but for the first time in your life, you feel flustered.

 

 

As it happens, a case does come up and you have to cancel your plans. Happily, John joins you. For the first time in a long while, everything is as it should be: Holmes and Watson, solving crime on the streets.

A tip-off and a lead from the homeless network lead to John and you cornering the murderer’s fiancé, who had in turn killed him. Afterward, the two of you laugh over old inside jokes. Then John brings up Victor.

“Seen any more of your hat-wearing friend?” He asks. He doesn’t sound like he’s taking the whole business seriously.

“Yes, actually,” you snap, slightly irritated by John’s demeanor.

“Oh?”

“We had coffee. And dinner,” you mutter. “His name is Victor. He paints.”

John looks surprised. “You went to dinner with a random man,” he says incredulously.

“No need to repeat what I just said. And he’s not random,” you say defensively. “He reads your blog. And isn’t going out with random people exactly what you did before Mary?”

“I suppose. But it’s different with you. You don’t go out with anyone.” Suddenly something dawns on John. “Wait.. Was he- did you- was this a _date_ between you and him?”

“What? No!” You exclaim, a bit too vehemently. John raises an eyebrow.

“The lady doth protest too much,” he says with a smirk.

“John, if I went out with my fans the world would be a sadder place. In fact, if I went out with anyone!” You scowl.

John sighs. “You know what, Sherlock?”

“Mmh?”

“Maybe you should. Go out with people, I mean. It seems like you’re- well, lonely. Perhaps it’s time you found someone. Settled down, you know?”

“Like you and Mary?”

“Yeah, like us.”

“You’re not you anymore, John,” you blurt, exasperated.

“What? What do you mean, Sherlock?” John asks. He looks hurt.

“Where’s the man who would limp at the thought of domesticity? The John Watson with a tremor in his hand from missing the war?” You look at him desperately, trying to make him see. “My best friend?” Your voice cracks on “friend.”

John looks down. “Jesus, Sherlock, I’m sorry. But people change, I guess. It’s an overused expression but it’s true. I miss that life sometimes. But it ended years ago. Maybe we should stop pretending it still exists.”

“So no more cases together?”

_This can't be happening._

“Believe me, Sherlock, I’d love to, but I think it’d be for the best if I stop. I could go full-time at the clinic, for one. And, er, I have a feeling that Mary wants kids.”

_What?_ You blink, not comprehending.

“You, a father. Fantastic,” you say robotically. “Congratulations.”

“I think it would be a good experience, don’t you?” John asks. At first you think he’s asking rhetorically, but after a moment you realize he’s actually expecting an answer.

“Hmph. Yes. Good. New wife, new kids, new life. I’m proud of you.” You want to disappear.

“Thanks, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. I just think I’m sort of kidding myself by still doing this,” he explains again.

“It’s fine. Really.” It’s anything but.

“Well, er, see you later, I guess?” John asks awkwardly.

“Right. Excellent.”

“Bye, then…” He nods at you, then turns to go. You watch him walk away. You feel like you’re drowning.

This was your last case with John, you realize.

_It’s over. It’s over, it’s over, it’s over._

You leave the police station as it begins to snow.


	4. Portrait of Newsprint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Do you only ever paint your lovers?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring over-caffeinated and somewhat angsty Victor.

You go to Victor’s flat on a slightly warmer day the next week. There are cigarette burns on your dining table and cigarette burns on your arms. The taste of mint is strong in your mouth and you haven’t slept in days.

You ring the buzzer and wait. Momentarily, Victor opens the door, looking disheveled but happy.

“Sherlock! Hey!” He exclaims, ushering you in. You get the distinct impression that he’s had more coffee than he should have.

His flat is a mess of paintings and tarps and brightly colored, mismatched objects. A bright yellow leather sofa sits nestled between two unknown objects covered in tarps. The wood floor is stained with paint and the window on the far side of the room lets the cold late-February sun pour in. There is no television or coffee table. An easel stands in the corner with a half-finished painting of an older woman- the portrait of his mother he mentioned, you suppose- sitting on top of it.

For some reason, you find the clutter comforting, like Baker Street before John moved out. When he left, you got angry at the furniture and cleaned everything up, organizing the flat meticulously so the living space matched the immaculate order of the inside of your mind.

You sigh and turn to examine the paintings. There are landscapes done in intricate shades of blue-grey, the brushstrokes pulled across the canvas the same way you pull the bow across your violin (the way one touches a lover.) There are animals only seen in storybooks in vivid reds of sunsets warning of wind, trees in the greens of spring, hues so delicate they are almost gold.

The most striking piece is on the back wall: a portrait of a young woman. Instead of her features being painted, her face is covered in scraps of old newspapers.

Victor sees you looking. “I tried to paint her face but I never really got the chance.”

“Who was she?” You ask.

“A girl in my class in uni,” He explains softly, looking at the painting sadly. “Her face was exotic, intriguing. She agreed to model for me. I couldn’t get the face right on the first try, and I didn’t get a second chance. We- we made love one night. I never saw her again.”

You swallow hard. Were you [misinterpreting his interest](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bpOSxM0rNPM) in you?

“Did you… love her?” You ask quietly.

“No.” You don’t probe further.

“Portraits are difficult. You have to capture the person perfectly, not quite their face, but their mind, their soul. I’ve always failed.” He pauses. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s a very, ah, _intimate_ sort of thing. Your soul absorbs a piece of someone when you’ve painted them. Then you get your heart broken and you put the painting away and never look at it again. But you can’t destroy it. It’s a part of you forever.”

“Do you only ever paint your lovers?” You ask, unsure if you want to know the answer.

“They’re the only ones worth painting.”

You stand there in silence, trying to ignore the painting but at the same time transfixed by it.

“Why do you keep her up here if she broke your heart?”

“Respect. She- she, er, she was my first, if you know what I mean.”

_Oh._

“The newspapers dull the ache. And, in some ways, they’re a better representation of her than her real face.”

“How so?”

“She’s just a nameless, faceless girl, a one-paragraph story barely making the fifth page of the newspaper of my life. Most people are.”

“It’s the same with music, you know,” you comment quietly, turning to look at Victor. He's bouncing on the balls of his feet in agitation. “You write a song for someone who matters," you continue. "Not even romantically, just someone who is significant in some way. And then they break your heart and you never play the piece again. But you never forget the melody. It comes up in your head whenever you think of them. You can only play it once you’ve moved on."

The night before, you stayed up and wrote a song, the saddest and longest and most heartbreaking song you’d ever played. It was a requiem for John Watson- at least, the John Watson you once knew. You didn’t write it down, but it had been burned onto your eardrums. You would never forget it. Around midnight, you realized that Mrs. Hudson had been behind you. She looked at you and she had tears in her eyes. She understood.

Later that night, you broke down yourself. You cried for the first time in months. You felt utterly alone. The song was different from anything you’d ever written, from the lively, overly-sweet piece you had composed for Mrs. Hudson’s birthday to the somber melody honoring Irene Adler. This was a song you’d die playing.

“I could never put meaning into my music,” Victor sighs, bringing you back from your train of thought. “I play the piano but all my songs, even other people’s songs, are, to me, purely technical. It’s torture how I can be moved when listening to music but can never convey the feeling myself.”

“Music comes in flavours with me,” you explain. “In colours, and textures, and scents and thoughts and memories. It’s everything.”

“Synaesthesia,” Victor murmurs.

“My senses, while sharper than average, are jumbled in some ways,” you agree.

“Fascinating.”

The two of you stand there, maintaining eye contact. You feel your cheeks redden; you cough and turn away.

“This is going to sound a bit strange, but, er, could you maybe model for me?”

This certainly interrupts your thought process. “What?"  
  
“I could always improve at portraits and it’s no fun painting an ordinary face,” he explains.

“Flattered,” you say, slightly dazed. You’re still processing his request.

“Will you, then?” He asks eagerly.

“Why not?” You surprise yourself by saying. “I have nothing else to do most of the time, anyway.”

“Thank you!” Victor exclaims gratefully. “I haven’t done faces in a while, aside from Mum.”

“I’d be happy to help.”

“I don’t mean to rush you, but is tomorrow okay?”  
  
“Of course.” _What am I getting myself into?_  
  
You arrange the times with Victor and shake hands with him awkwardly. Strangely, you find yourself excited as you walk out the door.

And then, your mind flashes back to the conversation earlier.  
  
 _“Do you only ever paint your lovers?”_  
  
Oh.  
  
 _Oh._  
  
You shouldn’t read into this at all.  
  
(But God, do you want to.)


	5. Fire, Fire, Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why are you saying this?” You ask.  
> “Because I’m letting you know I’ve been on fire my whole life, Sherlock, and I won’t let anyone, _anyone_ , put me out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Engage tragic backstory. Victor is growing on me. Also, "pigfuck."  
> Bit of a short chapter, sorry. The next one is much longer.

You knock on the door of Victor’s flat, but there’s no answer. You hear the faint sounds of piano. Trying the doorknob, you find it unlocked. You walk past the main room into what must have originally been meant to be used as an office.

Victor is sitting at the piano, his back to you. He’s playing a piece of his own composition, apparently; technically difficult, but, as he had said the day before, lacking in emotion.

You come up behind him. He’s stopped playing and is staring at the keys looking frustrated. You gently place your hand on top of his. He starts slightly, then turns to look at you. He smiles sadly.

“It’s hard for me.”

“I could help you with it, if you want,” you offer.

“I doubt you could help. Thanks, though.”

“Try me,” you say, smiling. “So, shall we start?”

“Oh, er, of course. Hold on.” You follow Victor into the main room. He bustles about, setting up the easel and fetching tools. You peek under one of the tarps and find several paintings. The brushwork is skilled, but they’re rather unsettling; half-sketched faces scribbled over several times, paint shaken and splattered over them and dried in drips so it looks like the face itself is melting. Men and women alike.

Perhaps the most unsettling one is of a young, short-haired man; a perfectly ordinary painting in its subject matter except for one detail: the eyes, which are filled in with dull black paint with extreme precision.

“Please cover them up again.”

You turn around, feeling guilty. Victor is looking at you, his expression unreadable.

“I’m sorry.” You quickly cover the paintings of what must be his [lovers that went wrong.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kuC2sc-1CMU)

“The one with the black eyes is the most recent, in case you’re wondering. Finished, if you can call it that, a year ago,” Victor says coldly. “I had been with him for three.”

“You don’t have to-”

“We were engaged to be married, actually,” Victor continues, his voice shaking slightly. He sounds angry. _(Stop, I don’t want to hear this, I don’t want to know…)_

“Then, one day, he left. No note. No goodbye,” Victor finishes simply. His voice is level again.

“My apologies,” you say stiffly. You don’t know how you should react to being told something like this.

“Pointless to be sorry, I hate him regardless.” He sighs. “Sit down on the sofa.”

You follow Victor’s instructions, still a bit startled by what he just told you.

Silently, Victor stands in front of you. He positions your head, your chin, your shoulders, touching you gently. You feel a bit like a doll. The soft, quick brushes of his fingers are soothing. You relax and let Victor move you as if he were molding clay.

“In the myths, Prometheus made man out of clay,” Victor says, as if reading your mind. He speaks so softly you almost don’t realize he’s talking to you. “And then he gave us fire,” he continues, lifting your chin slightly and cocking his head. “We were made to burn.”

He moves away from you and sits down on the stool in front of the easel. “Oxygen in our blood is burning us up slowly. Some people smoke as if fire is the key to their happiness. Some burn their own skin to feel alive.” You touch your arm guiltily.

“Why are you saying this?” You ask.

“Because I’m letting you know I’ve been on fire my whole life, Sherlock, and I won’t let anyone, _anyone_ , put me out, least of all the man with the black eyes. So do me a favor and don’t make me think about him, okay?”

You nod and return to the position you had been placed in. Victor had scared you a bit, but now he seems completely relaxed, glancing over at you every few minutes. He runs his pencil over the canvas, sketching your outline. He licks his lips frequently and bites them in concentration. His body is loose, but it seems like his mind is tense, as if he’s sketching you not just on the canvas, but in his thoughts as well. Your image is drawn onto his mind in pencil now. With any luck, he’ll immortalize it there in paint.

Twenty minutes pass as you sit in an almost trancelike state, observing Victor. You memorize the pattern of his movements and the way his hand grips the pencil.

He pauses a moment and looks at the canvas, evidently displeased. “Shit,” he mutters, erasing vigorously.

This happens again several times over the next hour, sometimes much louder. One time he stands up and announces, “This is a pigfuck.” Then he sits back down and starts sketching furiously. You stifle a laugh.

Victor is a more interesting man than you had expected him to be, you think. Clever and kind, yet at the same time cold and bitter. But he is definitely on fire, just as he had said.

(You find yourself drawn to the flames.)


	6. No Punishments Needed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You sound… _Happier_ than normal,” you observe warily. “Anything I should know?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now, a really long chapter. The fact that John's favorite song is "Across the Universe" is a reference to [the Road Trip Series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/10114) by [stupid_drawings](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stupid_drawings)

You return every day that week and model for Victor, watching March seep in through the window. Victor picks up the brush only on the third day, and you get the distinct impression he’s still dissatisfied with the sketch.

On the second day, he had put on music, but “[Across the Universe](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PN9n1bAahg4)” came on and you made him turn it off. (It was John’s favorite song.) Now, you sit in silence the whole time, aside from Victor’s strategically timed strings of expletives. You pause for coffee and food, which Victor eats eagerly, but you still can’t muster up the energy to enjoy. Conversations are short but informative. You learn that Victor has no siblings but has a large extended family, that his parents are greengrocers, that he has a degree in English from the University of London, speaks French, and loves dogs. In turn, you tell him of Mycroft and murders, music and experiments at ungodly hours of the night, your chemistry degree from Oxford, and the little-known fact you can ride a motorbike, which he says he envies.

You don’t tell him about your past. You don’t mention drugs or depression, classmates or colleagues, the horrors you endured while “dead,” or your less-than-happy childhood. He doesn’t pry, and you feel occasional bursts of guilt for making him (however unintentionally) tell you about his former fiancé.

The hours during which he paints grow longer and longer, and he never lets you see his work. You wake up one day to find that you had spent the night on his sofa. On the fourth day, he’s stuck on the phone for an hour about a painting of his in a small gallery that a man wants to buy. Sometimes you wonder how much longer it’ll take him to finish your portrait, but you know you won’t mind if he takes another day or another century.

Somewhere along the line, you realize (to your chagrin) that you want him. Between the touches when he positions your face and the delicate motions of his hand with each brushstroke, you find yourself more and more drawn to him. He bites his lip even more frequently now, and sometimes his shirt hikes up a bit and gives you a glimpse of his sharp hipbone. You watch the taut muscles of his arm move under his sleeve.

Contrary to popular belief, you aren’t a virgin. You had plenty of one-night stands, nights of mindless pleasure and exhaustion as short lived and insignificant as highs of cocaine. Often, you would be high while having sex, sometimes on cocaine and buzzing from the stimulation, other times on morphine and numbed by pleasure. Most of the time, they were insignificant people, men and women in your classes that you’d seduce or would seduce you and then never speak to you again.

You met Molly that way, but kept her around for access to cadavers. Eventually, you grew fond of her, but you never loved her like she loved you, and you couldn’t muster up much sympathy for her. You soon became bored by the sex, found it repetitive. You stopped shortly before a near-fatal overdose.

But your attraction to Victor is different. You don’t want a quick-fix fuck, you want to know him, memorize every bone and muscle, have him as your own. But as more time passes, you become increasingly certain he isn’t as interested in you as you first thought. He doesn’t brush your fingers with his when you sit with him in coffee shops anymore, and practically ignores you while he paints. You’re afraid that if you even had a chance at all, you missed it. _(That’s what you get for falling for people. Idiot.)_

A case comes in after the first week of painting, and it goes slowly, lasting two weeks. You miss being with Victor, even if he hardly speaks to you when you’re there.

Working on the case is dull and lonely without John to keep you company, and you have a constant fear of missing crucial details, though you never do. Your mind is as sharp as ever, despite the emotions that should be clouding it and your constant deprivation from food and sleep.

A week in, you’re leaving the station when you see a black sedan waiting in the parking lot. Mycroft. Of course. Silently, you climb in and settle yourself in the backseat. One of Mycroft’s numerous “assistants” sits next to you, fiddling with her phone. You recognize her face, but her name escapes you.

“And you are?” You ask, eyeing her distastefully.

“Caroline,” She says, looking up at you and smiling pleasantly. You may not remember her name, but you’re certain that’s not what she introduced herself as the last time you saw her. You fall silent, interlocking and separating your fingers repeatedly. It’s snowing a bit, but it’s too warm for proper flakes, so half-frozen slush falls from the sky. It's dismal as hell.

The car pulls up outside the Diogenes Club. You follow Caroline in, staring at the floor, disinterested in whatever your brother has to say to you. Mycroft opens the door to his personal office and stands, gazing at you coldly. You shuffle through the door, ignoring him. He shuts the door behind you and pulls out a chair for you. You stand, unmoving. Mycroft sighs.

“Sit, Sherlock.”

“I’d rather not,” you reply icily. Mycroft inhales, closing his eyes. He’s not in a mood to be patient. This won’t take long.

“Have a drink,” he says (orders), fetching a glass and a bottle of aged whisky from the cabinet above his desk. You don’t protest to this, but still stand off to the side of the room, observing Mycroft with a calculating gaze as he pours the amber liquid. He offers you the glass but pours none for himself. Sitting down at the head of the table, he folds his hands under his chin, straightening his mouth into a line.

“And for what purpose have you taken me from my work today?” You ask, sipping the drink.

“I’ve heard about your new friend of sorts. Mr. Trevor.” Of course he would have.

“And have you brought me here to complain to me about him?”

“Actually, on the contrary. I’d like to commend you.” You raise an eyebrow.

“For what? Socializing without scaring the man off?”

“If you want to put it that way, yes.”

You snort. “Good to hear that you have so much faith in me.”

“From what I know, you see to like him rather a lot.”

You glare at your brother in thinly-veiled exasperation. “And what if I do?” You snap. “Is the world going to end just because I’ve managed to find myself a new friend?”

“We both know he’s more than a friend to you,” Mycroft unlaces his fingers and starts tapping on the table. The faint noise irritates you.

“In my mind, perhaps,” you say stiffly, your gaze unyielding.

“I assure you, he returns your affections rather warmly.” Mycroft tilts his head to look at you knowingly. You scowl.

“I doubt that.”

“You’ll see soon enough,” Mycroft sighs, his words slightly sing-song.

“You seem awfully pleased about all of this,” you point out snarkily. “What happened to your belief that caring is a weakness?”

“It is if you haven’t got the right person. Miss Adler certainly was the wrong person, Sherlock. Victor isn’t going to harm you; in fact, he’s more at a disadvantage than you in this whole situation, considering his past.”

“Maybe if you didn’t stick your nose into my friends’ business we wouldn’t be having this disgustingly dull conversation,” you mutter, finishing your drink. Your throat burns slightly.

“I called you over here to tell you that you have my approval. Just don’t, as they say, ‘fuck it up.’”

“Called? More like kidnapped,” you laugh humourlessly. “And I don’t need your approval.”

“All I’m trying to say is I’m happy for you. Just because I’m the one saying it is no reason to be defensive.” Mycroft rubs his temples, sighing. “I wish you the best.”

“Thank you,” you say coldly. You place the empty glass on the table with a dull thud and turn to walk out the door.

 

 

A week later, you’re lying on the sofa in a daze from the adrenaline rush of finishing the case, which was a good puzzle solved without endangering your life too much. At that moment, John calls you. You stare blankly at the ringing phone a moment, then pick up, feeling empty.

“Hullo?” You answer groggily.

“Hey, Sherlock! It’s been a while. Mary and I are having a, er, a party for, well, you know, soon, a month maybe, and I was wondering if you’d like to come.” There’s a forced formality to his tone, a bitter reminder of the changes your relationship had undergone over the past month.

“I have plans for a while,” you say dryly.

There’s a pause. John clears his throat.

“Oh. Something with- Vincent? Is it?”

“Wrong painter. Victor,” you correct.

“Good, I’m happy for you.” John sounds pleased.

“I’m modelling for a portrait. His idea.” You don’t know why you’re telling John this; maybe as a desperate attempt for your former closeness.

“Good for you!”

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” John says cheerily.

“You sound… _Happier_ than normal,” you observe warily. “Anything I should know?”

“Oh! Jesus, I thought I told you. The party, er, it’s- it’s a baby shower. We’re having a kid.”

For once, you’re stunned. To your surprise, you’re actually happy about this announcement.

“Well then. Congratulations, John,” you say, grinning. You can practically hear him beaming. “I’ll see if I can make it, then.”

“If it’s a boy, we’re calling him Hamish, if a girl, Harriet,” John babbles excitedly. “Either way, we have the perfect _middle_ name picked out.”

“And that is?”

“‘Sherlock,’ of course.”

“You- what?” _Am I hearing things?_

“You heard me, and I’m not repeating it.” The formality is gone. He sounds like himself again. You hope you’ll never have to play the song you wrote again. “You don’t need even more of an ego boost.”

“I’m honored,” you laugh, still grinning like an idiot. “With a name like that, the new little Watson will have solved their first murder by age three.”

“Shut up,” John giggles happily.

“I normally can’t stand children, but given their parentage, I’ll happily tolerate yours.”

“Gee, thanks. Don’t let them anywhere near any chemicals, okay?”

“I’ll make an effort.” You smirk.

“Later then, Sherlock.”

“Evening.”

You hang up and flop back onto the sofa. You’re seeing Victor again tomorrow, John’s a father, and you find yourself truly happy for the first time in ages.

(No punishments needed.)


	7. *NOTE*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> not a chapter, but an apology for the lack of updates.

I've been extremely busy with school, karate, chorus, etc. And I'm in a bit of a writer's block, to boot. I know exactly how the story will go, and I have about three chapters done that I haven't published, but I just can't muster up the energy to type them up. Not updating is stressing me out, but once some of this academic nonsense is done, I assure you I'll post the rest. Sorry and thank you. -Sasha


End file.
